Memories of Us
by Blit'zeen
Summary: In which disaster strikes and a relationship evolves through insanity and the brink of death. Our Great Lord Solomon and Sheba. Because who else could it possibly be?
1. The beginning

DAY 1

Eight comets streaked through the afternoon sky. Eight Great Sinners heading home. A single man led the rough formation, his dark hair rippling behind. They used gravity magic to fly, instead of walk like any other normal magicians. Only they weren't normal magicians. They were magicians of the Divine Staves. So far, the journey had been uneventful, an easy silence hung loose between them, the wind would snatch any words away anyway. The scenery speed past them and sometimes changed so rapidly it was hard to make out tell-tale landmarks. Even so, it would be nigh on impossible to get lost. In these now familiar mountains, in this now doze-inducing sun it was so easy to relax. So easy to relax that what happened next came as surprising as it was disastrous. The blow came from one side, a slash of darkness across the picturesque blue sky. And the air seemed cold for just a moment before the spear of magic burst through someone's Borg, hitting her square on the right temple. That someone was Sheba. The girl fell from the sky, her hair and limbs trailing behind the main weight of her body, a fallen comet. The girl's shattered Borg dematerialised, she gave no cry.

A moment of shock followed, then Setta dove down after her and managed to snatch Sheba out of the air before what would have been a fatal impact with the ground. Solomon felt rather than heard the commotion. Perturbed, he turned to find his allies crowded around a motionless Sheba. They murmured urgently to Setta who answered most of their questions with a stern 'I don't know.' A searing rage filled his veins. Hunting out the offenders was easy as they were shuffling frantically in the undergrowth, undoubtedly attempting escape. Solomon growled quietly at them and opened himself to the Rukh, his livid fury seeking a different kind of punishment for those that hurt his companion. A third eye glared wide. His rage settled and gathered into shapes. Letters that tumbled from his mouth. Words of violence, words of death, words of pain. Words that filled his own head and screamed at him. He'd never said these condemning phrases before, never even known them in all his studies. But as they struck, Solomon knew those words were a slow, helpless death. A bitter part of him felt they deserved that, and worse. The other part of him had momentarily drowned.

During his attack, Solomon had found the magicians' magoi more concentrated, heavier and slightly impure at the same time. And despite his mood, the man was fascinated by such a discovery. One conclusion had rapidly been drawn by such information, though. The squadron had been honed for assassination. He cursed his carelessness. This event would have been so easy to avert. Just a little more caution, just a little more expansive in their security and Sheba would have been fine. After ordering Arba and Ugo to scout the area, he personally flew in to check on the young woman. Sheba was limp in Setta's arms, her skin unnaturally pale and breathing shakily-she was breathing! A wave of relief lessened his anger, converting some to unease. Still suspended like stars in the sky, the remaining five could only watch anxiously as their healer began the usual protocol after any injury. They needn't be worried, Solomon knew. Setta had done this countless times in the past, but the man still couldn't dismiss that pool of unease in letting Sheba-of all people-get hurt. The darker-skinned healer nodded imperceptibly, adjusted his glasses, closed his eyes and exhaled. Delicately, he delved into an existence of swirling warmth.

Meanwhile, Arba was searching for the aftermath of the work of her former master. She'd noticed the dark gleam behind Solomon's eyes, the way they sagged momentarily after his spell. To put it bluntly, those symptoms were a signal of a dark magic forgotten to time. Those symptoms were a signal of the toll it would take on his mind. A toll that would lead to insanity. She knew of this from ancient inscriptions she'd managed to catch a glimpse of in David's captivity. Back when Arba was little more than a girl and the idea of David's child had not even been considered. She knew that if Solomon lacked the strength in soul, there was nothing anyone could do. But Arba couldn't be sure, maybe she was wrong. Silently, she prayed to be mistaken in her own judgement. But when she came upon the dying figures, the woman was assailed by horror. This was it. There was no doubt. This was what she had glimpsed by chance, carved in that chalky clay. All of them-and there were nearly fifty of the pitiful magicians-were clawing at their scalps with bony hands, their skin now taut on flesh and bone. Blood leaked from their heads onto unrelenting fingers. Hair littered the ground. They groaned loudly or screamed silently, eyes wide or squeezed shut. Arba sobbed once, stricken by the scene of madness.

Setta let his own magoi intertwine with Sheba's, careful to erect a thin membrane between them so the two entities wouldn't merge into one. That would be laughable if not for their situation. This wouldn't take long. As he worked his way to the sight of impact, Setta unveiled truths that his patient herself was too embarrassed to announce. Sheba loved Solomon. Her conviction of this was written so deep he was surprised not to have noticed such earlier. It resonated everywhere in her magoi. Even in this state of mind, Setta had the politesse not to pry. He probed deeper, movements ever more gentle as he neared her head. It would certainly not do to cause more damage in this part of the girl. Then he felt it. A dense rope of darkness that was worming into her very brain. And he knew it was her brain because of the complex latticework of magoi that kept it working. He would have shuddered if that was possible. Following the strand, Setta found the dark seed's roots. The ends ever pulsating, forcing themselves deeper towards her destruction.


	2. Diagnosis and the Dark

Just in case there are any of you that didn't read the reviews and my author notes in them, I just wanted to say the following. The first few chapters aren't as good, because my writing brain was stuffed up. Feedback and especially feedforward is very welcome. Thank you to my reviewers: Surakittmay and Saffy

Tentatively, he reached out, intending to erase it with a stroke of purity-just like he always did when faced with something like this. At contact, Setta instantly sensed a disturbance and flinched away. The darker matter pulsed violently, thrashing in all directions. It lashed out like an animal. Setta dimly felt Sheba writhe and whimper. Her own, purer magoi darkening, growing sluggish. This was a form of magoi poisoning. Not cool. If not for Setta's early realisation, this too would've happened to him. A hybrid of dread and understanding dawned upon him. David had planned this, crafted this peculiar form of magic to be fueled and aggravated by outside magoi. Setta quickly disconnected from the flow. Probably too quickly, because as he emerged from the lightless solitude, his head spun and he faltered briefly in the air.

'Setta, what happened?' It was Solomon who spoke and a frown marred his face.

'It's magoi poisoning, probably activated by my touch of magoi. Magic seems to make it worse and I don't think there's much we can do. It isn't cool. I'm sorry, but Sheba will have to recuperate on her own,' he said. A silence hung damp between them, and it seemed to push at Solomon's brows because for a moment, Setta glimpsed a dark, foreboding scowl cross his leader's face, and then he turned and the moment passed.

(Magoi poisoning is when one's poison is Magoied. I mean, when one's Magoi is poisoned. In this instance, Setta used what is now called 'Magoi Manipulation' and made the poisoning more severe and powerful at contact)

Sheba didn't look too different, Solomon thought. She still had her trademark little horns of hair and the same clothes and the same… Try as he might, he couldn't think of anything else. Graciously laid on the bed, the girl was gaunt. Her cheeks were already sunken, breath shallow and shaky. Everything about her seemed to sag, her eyes, her skin and flesh to some degree. Even her hair seemed unnaturally limp now that he really looked at it. In the bland, low-ceilinged, seldom-used sickroom, Solomon sat alone. The others had eventually left to their own tasks, cooking, training, child-minding, and in Ugo's case, researching a cure for Sheba. A pang of guilt and sorrow assailed him. How could he have let this happen? How could he have been so...so irresponsible? Solomon felt his throat constrict, it was his fault. So engaged was he in his own reverie, the silent man didn't hear Arba behind him until she pulled out a chair and settled into it. More silence.

'Hey,' she murmured.

'Solomon,' louder this time. A pause followed before the said man shifted to face her. She noted the weariness in his posture but said nothing.

'I bought you dinner,' she handed the meal to him and switched her gaze to the sleeping girl as he picked at the food, barely registering what it was. Hesitating briefly, Arba launched into her speech.

'Listen, Solomon. You can't do this. Sitting here with an unconscious girl isn't going to help anything. You'd be better off aiding Ugo with his research if you really want to ensure Sheba's recovery. Don't abandon your duties,' she glared at him, then continued. 'Tonight, we missed you, Ugo and Sheba at the table. We all care about her, but don't you think you're acting selfishly? Don't you think you've got better things to do?' Arba knew this last bit would hurt, but she couldn't shelter him. Bluntness was necessary. With a tightening of his jaw that only one such as Arba could notice, Solomon returned to observing the girl. The older woman sighed. This would be harder than she predicted. Did he care for her so much that he could not see properly? Or was it... a series of dark visions flickered across her mind, each depicting haunting possibilities of a depraved Solomon. Scenes painted with the colours of death, rage, and madness. Scenes of terror. And they flitted passed with such outright speed that Arba actually had to focus to dispel the thoughts. When she opened her eyes again-for just a moment-she felt a chill, ominous aura radiate off her oldest companion. It was still dormant, but the ancient dark was undoubtedly there.

It was night and Solomon felt strange. For in the corners of his sight, every time his eyes shifted, a feathery shadow brushed at his consciousness. It was a brittle touch and boundlessly cold, like the hair of the deceased in a cage of frost. But Solomon himself wasn't cold. No, his skin was on the verge of prickling and and a strange weight seemed to almost push out from his flesh, igniting his largest organ and endlessly supplying an odd heat to his pores. It wasn't comfortable. And ever since Sheba got injured, there had been an incessant screaming in Solomon's head. It was muted, but it seemed to gnaw at his thoughts and dampen his reasoning. Solomon found himself unable to focus, incapable to rest. With an elbow perched on the side of the bed and his head supported in the hand, Solomon let his mind wander. Arba was right, he should leave. He should leave and aid Ugo in his studies instead of sitting motionless in the same room with the same person for… this long. Yet he couldn't bring himself to abandon the resting girl, even if the reason was beneficial to her. Why was that? What was wrong with him? The wrinkling of his forehead skin deepened. Exhaling harshly, Solomon lowered the top half of his face into the edge of the mattress. Maybe he was forgetting something, something vaguely important. Then the screaming intensified-just a little-and the troubled man forgot that he was meant to remember.

Our Great Lord Solomon is messeeeedddd uuuuuuppppp.


	3. Revelations-sorry short, more 2morrow

Yay! Reviews! Reviews make me so happyyyyy. More crazy Solomon and pretty tables and awesome Falan on the way

I hate disclaimers

.

I really hate disclaimers

DAY 2

During her silence, Arba had never ceased to worry. She had stalked the halls, often peeking behind one particular door. The darkness beyond had been held back by a single candle, a vain protector from the dark. It's feeble radiance shed just enough light for her to observe her former master, his dinner untouched. He'd seemed to be on the verge of sleep, eyes closed from what she could've seen of them, buried in the sheets. His cheekbones unnaturally deep and contrasting in shadow of the pale glow. Even then, Arba could notice his unrest. Solomon had been drawing in silent bursts of air, quick and erratic like a sprinter after exertion. Oddly, he'd seemed to be doing more exhaling than inhaling. It'd made him tremble, the sustained movement exaggerated on the ends of his dark hair. On closer inspection, the woman had noticed frantic movement under his eyelids. This discovery only tightened the paralysis of her distress. And for once, for just that one moment since she'd escaped from David's reign, Arba hadn't known what to do. All she'd known was her own inability to watch her best friend suffer. And with ever growing torment, she'd walked on. A lonely predator to hunt those looming halls in wordless seclusion. Even one night had been too long. That time for silence was over now. Arba would speak.

The table was actually quite nice, she noticed and her eyes stopped wandering. In all her years here, the woman had never really taken the piece of furniture into account. It had originally been carved from the very base of a tree, deep red wood embracing the light and twisting it into exquisite shades of cherry, chestnut, pastel and a domineering maroon. The surface had been polished by countless hands and-admittedly-some feet over the years so its original varnish had long since worn off. This effect also applied to the rim of the roughly circular item. Intertwining ropes of wood sheltered little pockets of garnet or ruby, so ingeniously hidden that the woman doubted anyone knew of their existence. Anyone but her.

'Arba!' She leapt out of her daze, almost connecting her head with the table she had been so closely inspecting. The impact would've been painful, considering the quality of the wood.

'Arba.' This time it was Setta. Cool and collected, so to speak. Much unlike his elder 'brother' who had spoken before. He adjusted his glasses. 'Your obsession with the table is not cool, you called this meeting, so talk to us.' She shuddered, that word was so grotesquely fitting for the looming topic.

'And where's Solomon?' Wahid muttered.

'Be quiet, aru!'

Arba sighed, and after demanding silence, cleared her throat.

'I've called almost all of us here to discuss an issue, it's about Solomon.'

She entered without shutting the door and the fact annoyed him. Scowling, Solomon eyed the object of undesirable quality, motionless as the woman settled beside him. To him, she seemed to feign interest in Sheba's almost peaceful form. The man closed his eyes in irritation, how hard was it to just shut the door? How hard would it be to just turn around and push the door until it thunked into place? Surely, it was possible. His moment continued, those ponderings gurgling around in his head like a looping tape. A point of agitating pressure on his left shoulder nudged him from his trivial reverie and the man frowned intensely at the offender.

'Solomon, you're not listening, hurry up or you'll miss breakfast, aru.' Falan's face contorted into something between a concern and alarm as their gazes locked, 'And you're like, such a zombie today, aru.' With a suppressed shudder, the woman hastily pushed aside her chair, steps small and quick even after retiring from his presence. The door remained ajar. Chafed, Solomon rose from the bedside, footsteps heavy and abrupt. The magician slammed the wooden slab shut with such force that the entire wall trembled beneath his wrath. Satisfied, he huffed, swiftly checked Sheba's condition, and returned to his seat. Stupid woman. And in his now silent, unknowingly broken mind, Solomon did not consider the thoughts that once would never have been deemed. He would not remember them again. And he did not sense the dampening weight consuming his being and every instant tipped Solomon closer to the edge...

Arba was right. There was something very seriously wrong with Their leader. And now that Falan had seen-no felt- it first hand, there really was no doubt. She fought back another oncoming shudder, recalling their two-and-a-half-person assembly. Since entering the room, Falan had extended the web of her consciousness into a single spear of thought, intending to pierce the defences of Solomon's mind and investigate. Because-really-no one knew what to do and only she could provide insight for the next step. At contact, even through the thick barriers of one such as Solomon, the woman had sensed a foreboding chill gushing out from the slits in his mentality's armour. The waves dense and vastly boundless as they lunged for her. She had almost panicked and withdrew hastily, throwing up her own defences with all her strength. Not today, she'd thought. Not today. Falan didn't think Solomon even knew. A colossal bang streaked through the walls and into her ears, the sound only amplified by tight corridors and arching ceilings. Subconsciously, she walked a bit faster, memories of Solomon's dim eyes and sagging appearance on the tip of her tongue. The spooked woman didn't think he would be joining them for breakfast.

Reviews, people! :D


	4. In the Eyes of the Blinded

Alright! Nostalgic style writing in this little chapter

DAY 4

It had been four days. Four long days since the accident, and three days since Arba's speech. In those four fateful days, Solomon had barely set foot from the little single-windowed room, his mood growing progressively worse. Every time one of his comrades would enter-which was very often- the man would eye them with something like suspicion, even prickling up when they left the door open, or pushed the chair into a particular position, or used the word 'don't' more than twice-this last one had applied to Ithnan. It was like an obsession. He spoke little and ate even less. Worrying, to a degree. Ithnan's brother visited Sheba daily, recording elaborate notes and taking heed to Solomon's condition as well. Setta would leave quickly, methodically report to Ugo who in turn would thank him and return to his studies that no-one understood. Not anymore. It was like clockwork. Yeah… A gloomy clockwork in which Ithnan felt like the unused cog or broken hand. Without Solomon's order and power, without Sheba's optimism and strength, a stifling blanket of demotivation hung dim and depressing over the ones left untainted. Sometimes Arba would attempt lifting the blanket, but it would always result in still silence. It struck him how pitiful they were without their leader. At these times, he and Wahid would spar in half-hearted bouts of sword and magic. At these times, sometimes Arba would join them. And so the days drawled by, growing ever more oppressing, ever more lifeless even as the six were full of life. Continuous in the dreary clockwork they all hoped would one day change.

DAY 6

Ugo hadn't slept, hadn't eaten the meals offered to him even after the sun passed its zenith and began its grudging descent into the mountains. Only the quickest morsel here and there maintained his body's demands. And now the man was receiving complaints of the most gnawing sort. It had almost been a week since the incident, since Arba's explanation. And the small group's discomfort had only grown. Implanting his head into piles of paperwork, the magician let out a long sigh. With ever growing unease, Ugo realised these missions were nigh on unacheivable. Magoi poisoning was a theory he himself had unraveled, and now the enemy was using the relentless onslaught in their own favour. However, this-this obscenity in Solomon was unheard of. Not to mention, Ugo's current research was deducting everything but the most senseless formulas (which also required deduction). The situation simply wasn't any different to the first seemingly endless night. Ugo tried to rise again, to take some weight off his heavy head and eyelids. Pathetically, the genius managed to lift both of the said parts of his body before they lowered again, desperate for some rest. Exhaustion claimed him, and the drained man slipped into a dreamless slumber.

DAY 7

She squirmed, hands vacantly clutching the air, yet scrambling for the sheets. Her once exuberant face was closed in a gaunt, twisted replica of a nightmare surfacing. Creases marred her brow, gravity-laden moisture slid over flaky skin to caress her temples, the shining trails soaking into a lusterless hairline. Tremors so violent racked her frame, it was a wonder her feeble body could host them at all. And there was nothing they could do. "They", being the ones present in the room. Setta, pencil still poised over his clipboard from since the seizure started, intensely observing. Arba squatted by the low bed, trying desperately to make Sheba more comfortable as she dodged the sailing arc of her arm. The older woman's ceramic cup in shattered remains by the entrance, the door still ajar. And for once, Solomon wasn't consumed by the so-regarded imperfection of the door. Instead, his only attention was on the agonized girl; his gaze wild, knuckles white from their rigid grasp on the bed frame. The colour-or lack of colour-also tinting in his complexion. His head and shoulders jutted out from his hands and rest of his body so the man had a slight resemblance to a stressed heron. One would think he was the person in pain. The door widened further and Falan burst in, closely followed by Ithnan and Wahid, his hands slick with the grease of something that was once was a chicken. A wing swung erratically from a partially torn join before it splattered to the ground. Wahid didn't even look down.

'Falan,' the Sixth One snapped, 'Try getting into her mind, we need information. Arba,' Setta directed a steady gaze toward the fussing woman, 'That's not helping. Solomon, you're going to snap the bedframe, Ithnan no, please not the flowers, and Wahid…' He eyed the mangled food disapprovingly, 'Put that, that duck down will you-'

'It's not a duck-' Then Sheba caught their attention, words as mangled as the other man's limp bird and as fragmented as Solomon's consciousness. Her voice breaking and yet rising as she spoke.

It was so dark. Torn between wakefulness and oblivion, engulfed in an eternity of solace, darkness was the only reality. Darkness and silence. Stifling beyond measure, every breath a battle; immobility her only weapon . And so, she was motionless. Motionless save for the quivering rise and fall of her chest. The movement oppressed, aided by a kind of paralysis and it, too began to stifle her breathing which resorted to a stillness which stifled her breathing which resorted to a stillness-it was dark; it was dark for a very long time. And it got darker, colours dripping, seeping, blurring-burning oh it burned-into one and another. Unnameable colours, as they were too terrible to voice. The colours smelt of death, hues pooling into her surroundings, bleeding darker and ever more foreboding. She flinched away, a steadying foot shifting back. But the heel struck air and sunk. And then she was falling. She did not grasp for the handhold that didn't exist; she did not reach for the absent footfall. She did not cry out. Her hair did though, and it went limp about her form. Her shell did though, thrashing like leaves in a storm, speech scraping for a halt in descent, and she felt it poison her core.

'No!' She felt her own voice betray her. 'Help me, please help me!' She hated it. And it was with such passive interest that she felt herself impact and shatter like a ceramic cup by a door. Her other soul fleeing from herself in all directions, the fabric stretching and snapping, crystals of anything remaining of her other judgement cascading and lying still. So still. At this lightless bottom, her broken form did not bounce and her breaking mind did not feel the darkness recoil.

Ithnan's so OC. Poor Ugo. Poorer Sheba. Very poor Sheba. Paw paw Sheba. (Sorry Sheba you aren't a paw paw I promise)


	5. Ugo's Absence

Sorry I haven't been updating, I've had camp. But I'm gonna make it up with two chapters!

The poisoning had infiltrated her head, Setta reasoned, scribbling at his parchment. He paused briefly, drawing back the names he and the Genius Magician had formed. The nervous system and yes, the limbic system. The seizures were probably their way of retaliation. Yes, that would make sense. He allowed a ghost of satisfaction to dust his features as he committed his findings to paper. Information such as theirs would probably only be realised again in centuries to come. It was a cool thought among his next grim discovery: the illness was heading for vital organs. The Sixth One scowled, laying the stick of charcoal utop a sheet of papyrus, roughly examining the scrawl for errors before averting his attention back to the writhing girl. There was nothing more to do and little more to observe. He glanced once more-fleetingly-at the unknown bird; they could only wait. When at last Sheba stilled and her bedding was rearranged, it was as though she had never moved. Like a doll she lay, limp and soulless. Thinning arms by thinning sides, breath of winter: cold and sparse. Centered almost ceremoniously on clean sheets, it was like she was dead. Because wasn't that what dead people did? And it wasn't just her, limp from her pillow-arranging and limb-tucking, Arba took a lazy draught from a different cup, her former favourite vessel grudgingly forgotten. A soulless Solomon stared, stark in his stupor, no thoughts in his head but a cryptic wailing; that wailing was back, wait no, wasn't this his first time hearing it…? The thin stems of wintry flowers had been set down beside Wahid's now cold food; sparse, fallen petals sinking in solidifying grease. No-one moved for a while, immobilized in collective melancholy. No-one moved for a little too long; no-one felt the absence of a certain magician.

DAY 11

There was a crash. Setta inhaled.

'How many times must I tell you to stop sparring in here!' He could hear her from the opposite side of their accommodation. 'No, put that down, and GET OUT.' He adjusted his glasses. 'You too, Ithnan! No, don't walk that way-' A forceful growl. Setta could imagine his poor brother cowering beneath her rage. 'Great! Now look what you've done! You know what, you clean-WAHID.' Her voice lowered, poor Wahid. 'Don't eat that,' It lowered even more, he shuddered. 'You, don't walk on it.' And then there was a rather voluminous slam followed by unnecessarily heavy footfalls.

'Stop using that word, would you.' Setta decided it was about time he tuned out. He turned onto his stomach, knowing that being so indolent after eating was not cool. Strained as he was, the man could only sympathise with Arba, taking on such a role that Solomon had left behind must have been infuriating. Some yelling made it's way past his mental blockade. It certainly wasn't only her. Like Wahid, Setta's elder brother had been particularly grouchy and short of patience with everyone; it was probably their lack of role getting to them. And at each of their daily meetings, Ugo seemed less of himself and more of the insecure, misunderstood man he used to be. The Sixth One couldn't help and it was disheartening. He glared accusingly at a speck of dust on his pillow. Falan tried to be cheerful for Tess, but he could see in the sag of her shoulders and the bags under her eyes that she was taking it tough, too. He would not think of his leader. At last, Setta's thoughts drifted to Sheba. Her fits came more often now, each more severe than the last. In short, Not cool. The team was like a train, screws and bolts and hinges and components shedding as it went. A train that would only go faster until an inevitable impact...

DAY 14

She was seated at the same beautiful reddish table, contemplating nothing much in particular when Ithnan ungraciously made himself known. Puffing slightly, he practically flung his hands onto the quality furniture, leaning over it and looming in his presence.

'Arba!' She looked up to catch his eyes, falsely calm after seeing the unease in them. 'Ugo's in his room and not responding, do you think you could help? Come on, quickly!' Without waiting for any answer, any acknowledgement, he beckoned wildly and turned on his heel, marching out of the room. Now that she thought about it, there was that annoying clamor of her comrades; she'd just shut it out and locked it into that little box of 'useless thoughts' she'd accumulated over her long years of life. Arba was about to follow him when Ithnan spun to face her with such abruptness that it seemed he had never turned at all and had just been walking backwards the whole time. He made a couple more overblown gestures, arms in the air and eyebrows about to join them before shuffling the woman from the room. Understandably quizzical when he heard Arba mutter something to do with a box having far too many holes.

Prompted by Ithnan's current presence, Arba began speedwalking, her arms swinging for better weight transition. It was interesting, the way human bodies worked. They approached a sharp turn, the bend snapping to the left so dramatically that it seemed like the two were walking towards a dead end. It was just how Ugo liked it, perceptive, he'd said. And so that anyone not truly familiar with the layout would only head back, and leave him alone. Even the inscriptions that lined the sides of the floor and ceiling finished in a way that would only add to the 'blind alley' feel of this place. Turn back, the walls chimed. Their footsteps and closing distance of her friends' ruckus shaped muted echoes. There's nothing here, they urged. She smiled wryly. Must be getting old. The two magicians rounded the corner, effectively vanishing from anyone who might have been watching from behind. Of course, there would be no-one there. There they were, fully grown magicians banging on poor Ugo's door like little kids waiting to use a bathroom. Even Tess was there, adding his own little bit of noise to their clamor.

'Ugo? You're going to like, starve if you don't come out, aru.' Falan called, voice slightly strained over the the others' noise. A bowl of steaming soup balanced in hand. The First One banged impatiently as well, Ugo's dark, wooden door shuddering under Wahid's bursts of pressure. Arba could just hear Setta's loosely sophisticated words, uselessly directed at the forceful trio.

'That banging is not cool, if you keep at that, even Ugo's boosted support force of the door may not be maintained.'

'Quiet down! All of you!' Her words came out harsher than intended, and seven eyes hid their surprise with a limited range of success. She huffed loudly, this would be so much easier if Solomon was around. Actually around. And then she sighed, a wisp of wistful breath. The irritation in her eyes softened into mournful exasperation. 'Would you all just...move?' Sensing the somber change in Arba's mood, the four magicians parted like flower heads in a breeze, petals downcast. She seemed to ghost between them, hand and elbow brushing a delicate arc in Ugo's beaten door. 'Ugo, are you alright?' Nothing. In all honesty, the Fourth One couldn't do much more than the other four had done. Not without being rowdy. They waited a little more, stirring imperceptibly, a field of still and of silence.

'He's probably just busy, the poor guy,' Ithnan remarked. If anyone, it was Ugo with the most arduous task. She turned from the door, now eyeing each of them with suspicious amusement.

'Now, what might all of you be doing here anyway?'

LOL Arba. Part of that was really dramatic. Don't blame me, I was listening to some really epic music. YouTube. 6 hours of pure epicness by Pandora Journey. Check it out.


	6. Obscured by Crisis

Ugo's not dead!

Ugo sniffled, tightening his scarf around his neck. All this tireless work would the death of him, but he had no other choice. The genius magician looked up from the small figures of his handwriting, vision shifting dizzyingly before him as sagging eyes struggled to focus on something besides complex workings. Ugo felt hopelessness clench behind his eyes. Why did this have to be so hard? How come his closest friend's lives had to depend on him alone? It seemed like there could be no solution, but he had to try. Didn't he? Even if this-this endeavor-was nothing more than a futile dash against time. Semi-aware, he shuffled the papers around, intending to uncover his workings on Infiltration of Magoi Poisoning. His findings under the title were painstakingly diminutive. Without this information, any cure for Sheba would simply not be possible. He knew that some things couldn't happen. Things that would undoubtedly cause or significantly hurry Sheba's dea-he could not think of such a word concerning Sheba. Fiercely shaking his head to clear the unwanted thought, the glasses already perched low on his nose slipped down and clattered noisily to the papers before him. One arm resting haphazardly across his work.

Not bothering to pick them up again, the magician gazed at the writing diagonally displayed as underlined by the black frame. He let his eyes wander over the words, and with insignificant satisfaction, found that the arrangement of words were vaguely coherent. Magoi...the...Stored...infiltrate...poisoning...and...without...Seal...Cure...Disintegrates...Magoi...release...overpower...to...poisoning... He sat there dumbly for perhaps 150% of a second before the more perceptive area of his brain snapped at him. Wasn't that it? With the kind of thrill he only got when on the verge of unveiling some evasive mystery, Ugo left his own perfectly capable brain to the work. 'Magoi stored physically can infiltrate the poisoning and disintegrate to release powerful Magoi so as to overpower the poisoning! This was no coincidence, Ugo concluded, this has to be...something more! Now all that was needed would be some theory questioning and practical lab testing. Then the cure would be ready! Triumphant, the genius magician leaned back forcefully in his seat. Unfortunately, the so called genius had forgotten that the chair was not so much a chair, but a stool. In a moment of astonishment, Ugo flipped back and seemed to hang there for an instant before he pitched backwards. Thank god for the Borg.

DAY 15

Falan sat impossibly still at their breakfast table, back straight with feigned energy. It was the only part of her that even tried to look not so lifeless. The others had left after an introverted breakfast. Not that she had contributed in any way. A cold cup of unknown liquid was settled in her motionless grasp. Her eyes turned down at the corners, bags forming little loose pockets under flat and dull eyes. All her muscles-including the ones around her mouth-sagged. They awarded her with the look of a blobfish-out-of-water. The entire image was frozen. So when the unbridled slam of the sick-room's door jolted through the walls, Falan also jolted in shock and with an audible whump, slumped onto the table-you would've thought people would learn to actually close the door-face narrowly missing the cup she was barely aware of. It was certainly not a display of gracious coordination. The night before had not exactly been easy, after all.

Tess had been screaming. Screaming at the top of his lungs at that. She groaned her fatigue and irritation into the table. Perhaps Ugo was just as tired, perhaps more. The thought was strangely guilt-inducing. Ugo had it so much worse. Since the day before, the Genius Magician hadn't been any more responsive than he already was, and the small group of Sane Responsives were looking for answers. There were no glitches in the "Moving Mountain" magic tool that Ugo devised, so there couldn't be any intruders for Ugo to be harmed by. Especially not with all of them milling around. There was also the ridiculous possibility of Ugo starving to death as Falan had unhelpfully pointed out. Of course, Ugo wasn't stupid enough to let himself starve. Perhaps the seal on his door was broken and he was stuck inside? As feasible as that was, Ugo's magic devices never went wrong, never broke down. There could always be a first time, Falan thought, trying to find a reason just for the sake of trying to find a reason. She snorted in slack amusement, the sound seeming something similar to a snore.

Haah, all those thoughts totally needed rephrasing. Her sluggish brain couldn't be bothered though. Not when a well-needed sleep was finally lapping on the shores of her consciousness. Yes, that would be nice.

And so it went on. Mildly valid events amongst a seemingly endless eternity of monotony. Setta still recorded his in-depth observations of Solomon and Sheba, but ceased to feed this information to Ugo. The other magician's absenteeism made it virtually impossible. Ithnan still sparred and Wahid still sparred, but prolonged inactivity began showing in the form of fat. He looked slightly comical, actually. Arba still attempted to fill the bottomless shoes Solomon had left behind. Some avail shone through. Falan still kept her facade for Tess; it was crumbling though, and they knew it. Tess knew it too. Solomon still growled, still stomped, still slammed. If anything, it was getting worse. He had adopted an odd affinity to the colour brown and wore it. Now Sheba's sheets had to be brown and it was hideous. Sheba still was still, spans of false peace broken by bouts of terrible chaos. There would be nigh on five a day. She was thinning drastically, toned muscle melting away, leaving cold, grey-swept skin to sag and wrinkle. She looked older than any magician ought to. Her hair grew brittle-it was probably draining her little remaining strength-but Solomon was adamant that it mustn't be cut. Cheekbones jut out from a near-skeletal face, striking. Too striking. Her hands-bone and flaking, dying skin. They reminded Arba of the brutal carnage of fifty-odd magicians, mindlessly done by her once great leader's hand. A brutality he couldn't seem to remember. It went on. It went on and we watched from our golden stream until...

Congrats Ugo!

-claps-

Poor Falan.

But one question for the people who actually pay attention; Who are We?

What's next?

REVIEW AND I MIGHT POST MORE OFTEN

Don't listen to me, I'm weird

Actually, no. Do listen to me, please do.


	7. Our Great Lord Solomon Goes In

Newish writing style! Tell me what you think of the first paragraph

DAY 20

'HAH!' the jubilant exclamation was the only warning she got before Ugo's door swung outwards, (Ugo's door could actually swing?) the tall slab of wood careening towards her. It came precariously close to her eyebrows-shooting-up, eyes-widening, mouth-opening, all-in-slow-motion face before it arced away, slamming a door-handle shaped indent in the wall behind. Closely following the door-projectile, was the Ugo-projectile-hair an absolute mess-he hurtled towards her, but without a set of magically reinforced hinges, the other magician's backpedalling failed and their borgs clashed. The stored energy chose the lighter path and sent Arba-for of course it was she-into the corridor's far wall. Mind you, the corridor's two walls aren't actually that far apart, so her impact was all the more forceful. Think air resistance (Be proud, physics teachers, be proud). Ugo, being as almost frighteningly exultant as he was, paid no mind to Arba's concurrence with the wall. There was actually a crack, believe me.

'I'VE GOT IT,' he screamed, and Arba thought it was far too loud a scream, 'I'VE FINALLY GOT IT. SHEBA WILL BE JUST FINE AFTER THIS,' the Genius Magician flew off in a delight and over-fatigued induced speed when he could've just as easily walked. She gazed blankly after him for a moment, and then it all clicked into place. A smile that wasn't exactly straight broke out on her face. Ugo had done it. In a much more composed manner, she picked herself up and paced briskly after him. A long awaited relief eased her tense frame, the very beginnings of happy-tears sprouted at the corners of her eyes. He had never let them down now, had he?

They were all assembled there, bunched in the little room. Unsurprisingly, Solomon still managed to retain a wide berth of manoeuvre-room. No-one wanted to invade the brown-robed man's personal space, oblivious of Ugo's rambling. Tess watched curiously, eyes wide and shining. His mother and father closer in distance than they usually were and for once, Wahid was seriously, absolutely and completely and seriously being serious. The two figurative brothers also looked on, silent and unmoving. No one was smiling as had Ugo warned them earlier on the possible messiness of the side effects. Arba stood a little ways away in a corner. She had a vague idea of what mind transpire during such 'messiness,' as Ugo had put it. Propped up in Solomon's arms, Sheba was as sickly as ever, head supported in Solomon's right hand. She was like a skeletal baby in his hold. In a silence similar to gloom, Ugo injected a scentless peachy liquid into a patch of skin near her heart, the needle slipping under her skin with little resistance. There was a time of motionlessness. Then… Sheba stirred and the little gathering crowded closer. In wonder, the group watched her eyelids peel open. They were cloudy for a glorious moment before they widened and dilated, her entire frame going tense. And then she plunged into panic.

"Solomon? Solomon. I'm scared. Are you real? Is this real?" Sheba's eyes widened impossibly further. "No, no, no no no no. Not again. Leave me alone! You're not real!" She struggled pathetically in his secure arms. Now shaking intensely, sonorities of speech rapid and blurred. More cracks wound around Solomon's mind as she whined, but he needed to maintain his composure. For Sheba. He would be calm for Sheba.

"Hey, it's me. Sheba, calm down, it's alright. I'm here," he tried to sound soothing, to comfort her. It didn't quite seem to work as she only squirmed with more desperation, liquid despair seeping out from now screwed shut eyelids.

" You... You said that last time... Last time... You-" She was sobbing openly now. But in her current physical state, it was more like frenzied whimpering. Solomon could hardly bear the pain of having Sheba-now that she had finally, finally woken up-hardly recognise him, not even meet his eyes. Not even smile at him. The man exhaled shakily, how he'd missed that smile… Solomon swallowed hard, and without truly thinking it through, because he couldn't think he just couldn't-his mind wouldn't turn, He Went In.

Solomon watched in a detached haze as her lightless eyes opened, then widened, lashes fanning, slick with tears. He didn't want to see those tears. Solomon shut his own eyes. He refused to hesitate. Not now. A careful breath slipped from minutely parted lips, dusting her unmoving ones. What was reality? Sheba didn't know anymore. He'd never done this in the severed voidspace of her unconsciousness. He'd never even done this in her yearning dreams. He'd never done anything like this before. And then he kissed her, lips pressing chaste and deep and still. It was a porcelain moment. Their porcelain moment. No one moved in this serene silence. Not Solomon. Not Sheba. Nor anyone else. They were weirdly silent. In these cold depths, Solomon felt silken liquid seep into his dark lashes. The dampness-as well as this action itself-encouraged by a reservoir of longing and the oncomings of insanity. One journeyed down, dripping off his cheekbone. It sauntered onto hers and stayed there. She should have been soft, should've been warm; like everything she used to be. Sheba was none of those things now, and he felt her chill leech into him. It hurt. And despite the many times Falan and Arba had bathed her, she smelled of death and disease-a sickly shade of grey and green and something else. Even so, a wilful hint of the other Sheba remained: the little girl he had grown to admire. Solomon realised just how much he cherished of her-especially unmatched in optimism and strength of spirit. He felt a sliver of himself return, he was complete though, wasn't he? Wasn't he? David's son lingered a little longer; only seconds had passed. Then he pulled away, opening his eyes to catch Sheba gazing into them. A light of bewilderment on pupil edge. And Ugo's formula must've been working because a light blush rode high on pale cheeks and her breath seemed to come that little bit easier. Solomon smiled at her. She'd be alright now. But their moment didn't last. Sheba went limp in his hold, arms falling back from their frozen position. Solomon watched as the eyes that were only just locked with his lost focus. The bewilderment drained out. Her irises were blank once again. Ugo stepped forward from beside her and slipped cool eyelids closed with trembling fingers. The Genius Magician would not meet his wild glare.

That was my first kiss scene. YOU CANNOT IMAGINE THE DIFFICULTY AND RESEARCH REQUIRED. UUGHGHGGGH

Haaah, Sheba's like, dead, aru.

I just read that again and now I feel so insane.

Brown~


	8. Not Dead

You're so funny Saffy XD. Our Great Lord Solomon can be pretty funny too, so count yourself lucky.

His grip on the girl slackened and Solomon shifted rapidly in his seat. Wahid and Falan were embracing and grinning widely, gums showing. Tess leapt up and down, hair flipping wildly, also demanding a hug. With a growing sense of urgent disbelief, he observed them all. Ithnan stood uncomfortably, looking away from the recently transpired. Setta smiled, peering curiously at Sheba. And like Ugo and Ithnan, was taking care not to meet his eyes. After a query, Ugo spoke with Setta. Solomon couldn't hear them. He couldn't hear anyone, anything. He felt the world tilt and spin. The edges of his vision severed and burned. He noticed Arba smiling contentedly a little ways away, eyes wet with rising tears. How could she even be smiling? How could everyone be acting so normal, so happy? Couldn't they see Sheba's lifeless form, limp on the sheets? He couldn't be going mad. No, it must have been them. There was something wrong with them. Solomon rose so quickly from his seat that the wood scraped across the floor, almost toppling back. His ears rushed with swift cries; shrill wails; fallen screams. There was something so, so wrong. He caught them staring, those people. What were their names? It didn't matter. What did anything matter now?

He felt the older one rush forward, attempting to calm him. He set a blazing glare upon her. The glare was damp. The other one, the smart one with the scarf and glasses was speaking, quickly and loudly. Listen to me, his eyes begged. The woman shook him by the shoulders and he could hear again. And the noise bounced around in his skull like marbles in a tin can. His head was a tin can, empty and echoey. It should've been weird, but he was used to it.

'It's alright!' The glasses man said, 'The cure was designed to shut her system down, so she can rest,' What was his name? Ugo. Yes, that was right. 'You must have missed my talk. See, she's breathing. See look?' He motioned desperately at the woman, gestures wide and looping. It was true. Sheba's chest undulated evenly, eyes peacefully sealed. She was fine. She was just fine. She was just fine she was fine. Fine, fine. She was fine. Solomon went to sit back down, a collective sigh of relief bloating the already packed room. The man threw his weight onto his chair...that wasn't there. A moment of weighty regret, then his bottom struck hard stone floor. It wasn't pleasant, but they all laughed anyway.

I like chairs. Chairs are cool. Not as cool as Our Great Lord Solomon though. Wow, imagine Our Great Lord Solomon with sunglasses. I don't even know what to think.

It had been too long. Too long since they had talked like this. They spoke of trivial things. Matters of nothing that cheered and enclosed them in easygoing conversation. Their idle chatter filtered into the warm shade behind her eyelids, and she listened. She listened to the eloquent melody of speech and not the words she knew were of sparse importance. Solomon had said nothing for a while though, she vaguely wondered why. The mischievous temptation of light plucked at her lids. 'Rise, shine,' They/we chimed, disjointed beauty. 'The day awaits, and night will flee now. The dark is lost. Come.' And she did, eyes open just wide enough to see their faces. They had been waiting for her, talking all the way. The melody of their voices blurred into sonorities of speech as her focus grew. Her wandering eyes fell on Solomon, who was closely inspecting her arm. Memories bloomed in her heart, melting into a heat that crept up her neck, flourishing in her cheeks. But then she saw something wrong in his gaze, and the warmth faded to confusion and concern. It was too low, too concentrated. She noticed his brows furrow at something their comrades said. Before she could question it further though, Arba noticed her wakefulness.

'Sheba! You're awake, how do you feel?' She said, voice bright and true. The ghastly Arba of her visions-the ones that smiled too much and too wide; whose eyes curved down and slick. The ones that always struck her down-were gone. Sheba smiled, an expression between weariness and relief.

'Tired,' she answered simply, though her entire body felt feeble and sore. Even her brain felt sore; was that even possible? They were happy and resumed in their conversation, often prompting her with questions that she answered briefly. Lightened chatter brightened the room, streamed out of the windows and into the halls. Otherwise, Sheba simply observed. Solomon's phantom absence and stark silence unnerved her, his fixed, haunted gaze gnawed at her; was there something...wrong? But eventually, the animated speech of her closest friends snaked in behind her unease, placating it. Fatigue smoothed her concern, patting it over and shuffling it into the back of her mind and lulled the girl into shallow dormancy. Solomon never once looked up.

Ooooh~ Incoming explosions ;).

I'm actually two paragraphs from finishing the whole thing, so I'm going to start crash uploading soon.


	9. Verity is for the Brave of Heart

DAY 21

954 I KNOW YOU ARE HERE REVIEW OR OUR GREAT LORD SOLOMON SHALL SHUN YOU

It was late, so late that it was early. The sun was hours away from surfacing, and all was dark. In the still hours after midnight, no birds flew, no trees swayed, and even the swiftest of burbling brooks mirrored sleek-edged refractions of wispy grasses in their depths. The air seemed hollow, clouds and sky and the rest of the world blurring together in a single shadowed dimension. Shades of grey stretched wide and high and colour became one great empty space. Stars absent, moon vacant. There was no light, not really, but Solomon could still see the looming shapes, lost in the dusk. It was quiet, so quiet that it was noisy. Because anyone truly listening could hear so much. Though no leaves shimmered and rustled, no birds or insects thrust their cries upon the night, and no swift streams smoothed current into song, there would forever be noise. Listen, the ground beneath shifts, stony bones creak, not the stairs. Listen, the grass gossips, murmurs in the grey-gloom of dusk, dare not to muse aloud. Listen, the mountains sigh, sink their woes with flowing groans, they've lived too long. Listen, the trees lengthen and widen, they hum to the sky, each twig embarks on a voyage to the stars. Listen; the earth breathes.

A single window rests open in these wee hours, a chink of light streams forth, framed by curtains that have long since stopped billowing. The wind died an age ago. He sits by the illuminated square, the two beings, the square of light and the wakeful animal. They are strangers, they are outsiders, they are unnatural in this night. He thinks of himself, the narcissistic being. He questions his livelihood and sureness of mind. He does well to question, but such an unlinked mind can only collapse under the metaphysical force in his mind. This force retaliates under his logistical thinking, it must not be allowed. He suffers. Through the night and into the morning. He can not discern shapes in the gloom, he cannot understand the voices in the night. He hears them though, and all who are not one with us slowly get driven from their souls. The grass has only an inkling of how he manages to hear us, and she is unsure of how the force got to his mind. In her uncertainty, she shimmers. The movement shatters the hour. The sun will rise soon, and he will have forgotten the voices. The force will prevail. And we feel only a little remorse in the great scheme in the connection of our consciousness.

'And remember that time when the lady spoke to Ugo and he-' Raucous laughter erupted into the room before Ithnan could even finish the sentence. He didn't need to, as they all knew the story. All of them were strewn lazily across the room. Some lounging back on tilted chairs, some with their bodies spayed haphazardly over multiple items of plain furniture. Sheba laughed too, but more delicately, as weakened lungs still complained if her breath came too roughly. Such as now, but she was having far too much fun to stop. When their unruly chorus calmed, Sheba spared another glance at Solomon. The man seemed worse than the day before and was hunched over and frowning, the expression etched deep into his forehead. Similar to one of those carved gargoyle guardstones in front of the most impressive manors. Or like a baby hermit with a stomach ache. Curiously, the man began to tilt to one side, slowly and deliberately. His torso slanting more and more. There was no explanation, really. Sheba was aware of another bout of her comrades' mirth ringing into the corridors, but she didn't care at this moment. She watched Solomon start in his chair, the sudden tremor restoring him to an approximate upright position. He hadn't blinked for a while now. A scowl marred her own face as she watched the movement recycle. Tilt, tilt, tilt, jolt. Uptight. Tilt, tilt, tilt, jolt. Upright. There was something wrong, but what was it? Ugo had probably attempted to crack a joke, because Sheba dimly sensed a silent stretch in the conversation. She seized the opportunity and spoke.

'I'm sure it's not just me, you all-' Sheba motioned towards the others, confusion and curiosity scrawled across their faces at her sudden intrusion. 'Must be able to tell, too.' She directed a steady gaze at Solomon, the raw concern so pure that it made his heart lurch and shudder. 'There is something wrong with you, isn't there? You know it Solomon, and you've got to tell us so we can help you. See,' She settled into the blankets as her comrades shared glances of worry. 'I think I felt you there, Solomon. Everyday, through all my dreams. Thank you, thank you so much for being there,' an army of emotion assailed her, and she choked on it. Solomon hadn't moved, still fixated at the same irrelevant spot. Sheer gratitude prompted more speech though, and the girl pushed on. 'But I also knew that there was something...odd. What is it?' Apprehension forced its way onto her face. 'Tell us and remember that we will always be here, forever and ever. I will always support you!' The already intense emotion welled up some more, and she hoped it showed in the layers behind her speech. She hoped Solomon could feel it. The well spilled over and memories gushed with it. Her eyes widened, face flushed two shades darker than tomato, and promptly hid her face in the sheets. A strangled squeak emanating from the respective area of her mouth. Arba smiled, nodding in appreciation for the declaration of all their thoughts.

'Yes, I agree Solomon. We are all with you, isn't that correct?' Collective nods and murmurs of confirmation spanned the room. Solomon stood silently, eyes dull, monotonous. And then he staggered forward.

I came back pretty late from this party and I was like, okay time to sleep nao BUT THEN I remembered Saffy and was like ...eh

S anyway, here we go. As always, review!

YOU TOO 954VOS


	10. The Second Fall

Solomon stumbled forward, eyes wide. He gazed blearily at them, cobalt iris darkening, darker pupil contracting even as the thin line of his limbus seemed to expand. Arba leapt to her feet, her chair screeching then toppling back. She was by his side before it's hollow thud reached their ears. Sheba bolted upright in the bed, almost falling off it.

'Solomon!' She croaked, voice breaking. But then her muscles gave way and she really did fall off it, a most elegant heap. She cursed her limited mobility and watched, vision restriction by drooping cloth. She watched as he fell to unsteady knees, dark plait hanging almost regretfully in the air before dropping onto his back. Solomon clutched his head, chest heaving desperately. Though not a single draught of precious air made it to his lungs. Ugo ran forward, desperation and some sort of hopeless despair distributed wildly in his stance. Arba mirrored his worry, speaking rapidly of things neither understood. It was like they were attempting urgent conversation in a blizzard of bees. Sheba caught none of their words, she wouldn't have been able to understand them anyway.

Solomon curled tighter, chest crushed against quivering knees. Elbows journeying close to quaking heels. His fingers dug deeper into his scalp, the skin stretching taut. Soft groans issued between clenched teeth. Arba was nigh on hysterical, gripping his arm and attempting to tear it from the vice-grip on his head. She was begging now, to both Ugo and Solomon. Oddly pitched words strung together senselessly, almost screaming.

'Ugo Ugo please something help young master please stop please no Solomon why Ugo what please stop!' She rambled on, choked sobs mixed in. All the while, Sheba could do nothing. She lay helplessly, so hopelessly, limbs tangled and weak. She felt so weak. Unwilling to stand for such uselessness, Sheba struggled and kicked, a foot swinging feebly into a delicately supported dresser. The arrangement of flowers on top teetered, as if thinking, weighing options. But then gravity took over and the vase plummeted conveniently onto Solomon's head. He dropped where he crouched, a broken comet.

DAY 22

They'd thought he was dead. And he probably would've been dead if Sheba had not attacked the dresser. At least Arba had insisted so. She'd been hysterical, eyes more than her voice pleading Ugo to 'please do something'. What could he have done though? What could he possibly ever do to help anyone? Now, The Genius Magician was hiding in his research room behind tightly wound scarf and glasses and many piles of dark magic books, hair long since unbrushed. Huddled under a blanket, biting at a trembling bottom lip, Ugo resembled an abandoned child. Worms of deep insecurities surfaced once again, gnawing at his stomach. The blind things seeking destruction. He couldn't do anything, he was useless, no one understood him, no one likes him, he couldn't help, Solomon was dying, Solomon was going to die and he can't help, he can't do anything, he was useless to the world. Ugo shivered in the dark, those all consuming thoughts growing until the very air become a feverish frenzy. It became stifling, but he still refused to move.

She watched him in his sleep on the bed beside hers. The building was quiet around them, sounds of the kitchen and clanging staffs or blades muted through the walls. His breaths came easily, and not a trace of the Solomon of the day before remained. His eyelids lay still, that lovely dark hair contrasting strikingly with pristine white sheets. Splayed across the bedding like foaming waves awash upon pebbly shores. (I totally love Our Great Lord Solomon's hair, it's great. BUT I CANT DRAW IT UGHGHUGH) Ever since the most recent incident, the hideous brown had been removed. Sheba sighed, then reached out weakly to touch the dark threads, watching in childish fascination as the glossy locks slipped through her fingers. They used to be glossier, she was sure. She smiled a little, imagining what the others would be thinking if they saw them like this. There was no one else in the little sick room, though; many of them had returned to previously postponed duties, others trying Ugo's door in what she knew were vain attempts. She could hear them, Wahid and Ithnan. She could hear Arba too, voice red-rimmed with desperation and the residue of dried tears. Perhaps they couldn't bear to see Solomon like this. Perhaps they couldn't bear to see her like this. Her gaze drifted to his lips, a thin line, a closed crevice. She missed his presence, even though he had never truly been present for many an hour. And then she remembered for the hundredth time what those lips had done, and lost herself in those thoughts for moments too long.

She was waiting on Ugo, all of them were. Most of them did so in their own silent ways. Sheba pitied Ugo for being thrust beneath the daunting task of finding a cure for-this. She had no words to describe the disastrous phenomenon. No one did. Not even Arba who had explained the dark magic to her the night before. The older woman's detail of recall had been both fascinating and dooming; the girl really didn't want to know parts of it. But she had to, like Ugo. Like everyone else. Sheba withdrew her hand from Solomon's dark locks, momentarily cursing the gap between them and their beds. But her thoughts quickly returned to Ugo. It was impressive enough that the Genius Magician had found a cure for her, and Sheba wanted to dwell on such positive thoughts, but it wasn't easy. Not when everything was so...depressing. Sheba shifted painstakingly slowly to stare at the ceiling. Melancholy reigned in the hush of the room, and she wished from the bottom of her heart for the ability to help the shy magician or at least provide some support. Impossible, as his room was barricaded by an ingenious magic tool of his own invention and Sheba couldn't even sit up without support. Even so, the poor guy was probably feeling so hopeless. She tried stay optimistic, to think back to those short, precious times they'd shared the days before. But really, what was hope when all logic indicated despair?

I love the description in the chapter before

OUR GREAT LORD SOLOMON SHUNS YOU 954VOS

Poor Solomon

Yay! Sheba pov is so fun! Lalala~


	11. And We Speak of Her

DAY 23

He woke suddenly, though he knew not of his wakefulness. This interval of the night felt like a dream. When vision was interpreted in hues that weren't colours, when every heartbeat was the roll of thunder. When everything, everyone was asleep, he was alone. Solomon shifted slightly and found Sheba on her side, bare back exposed to the chill of the hour. The tranquility of sleep smoothed her face of any expression, effectively making her seem younger. In Solomon's eyes, just for a moment, Sheba was a girl again. Tenderly, he leaned over, tugging the fallen blankets into position. She snuffled at the intrusion, but otherwise stayed silent. He lay there for a timeless moment, thoughts unbroken. Soon, Solomon cast his mind back to past activities, but no recollection came. It was a disturbing, the blank space in his memory. He tried again, straining for something, anything to fabricate in the pale gloom. The hollow space remained devoid of remembrance, though. And eventually he chose to think nothing of it, and the nothingness of sleep chose him. There was a time that passed, a blink of an eye...She woke gradually, the feathery grey of dusk slowly overcome by tawny dawn. This interval of morning still came by as a surprise after the age of darkness Sheba had endured, not so long ago. She heaved a great, lazy breath, the air doing little to revitalise her sleep-saturated state. Eyes lidded and unfurled in slow succession, and the young magician summoned the strength to turn. Curiosity to find security in Solomon's condition aided the ungainly manoeuvre. But then her drowsiness was shattered. The said man was in the process of reaching for his shirt at the end of the bed. Backed hunched, eyes intent on something that was not yet her. Cool morning light gleamed off his hair and skin, and there was more skin than usual showing.

In her flustered faze, Sheba hid beneath the covers, a thin squeak slipping from a mouth agape. He must have noticed as she heard the shuffle of fabric, the turn of attention.

'Good morning, Sheba,' he said, a real, genuine, 'good morning how are you doing Sheba?' comment, his tone glazed smooth with amusement. She hadn't heard one of them for too long, and the revelation struck her into silence. And though she couldn't see his smile under the restrictive fabric, she could feel it in the lightened flow of his voice. It broke her heart and mended it at the same time because perhaps he was alright. Sheba remained undercover for moments longer, and the sheets grew somewhat stifling. She waited with giddy apprehension in the world of muted light, just long enough for Solomon to recover his shirt. And a bit longer, just in case. Then, with strengthened weakness, tore the covers from her concealment.

'Solomon, are you alright?'

He smiled again, reassuringly, and it was like gazing into an abyss of imploding stars. She should've been happy, but instead the stars she saw shimmered like the water of their sky had been disturbed; she just felt like crying.

'I'm glad' she said-mournful relief-and burst into tears.

He was smiles, and the twinkle reached his eyes. But there was something else there, behind his sight. He was speech, and like always, expressed his mind. But there was something else there, beneath communication. He was courteous, please, thank you, you're welcome. But there was something else there, inside his manner. He was fine, but darker clouds bordered the region. And there it was, his heavy something that no one truly felt, and when they would, they would not understand. They wouldn't want to understand. And because they wouldn't, they couldn't. They couldn't understand. They would never understand. See? See what we mean? And so they would remain. And she began to remain, linger, linger unsure. Unsure because in her absence, she did not grow accustomed to his oddities and then the details-the devil in the details-showed all the more. And as the others clung to brokenly false hope-because they couldn't accept the wrongness of this all-she began to see. See? See what we mean? Like a blind worm lost in dark water. Yet the humble worm couldn't tell, not because she had no mouth, but because no one would believe her. And her facade was perfect, an underlayer of politesse, words of optimism and a light dusting of smiles. She knew how to fool them, even if those actions were lies, and lie-recline-against her wishes. See? See what we mean? Except she didn't want to believe it either. And if she kept her deceit like the secrets of a dying cloud, dark and heavy and brooding and growing and expanding and destined to die, no one would believe her. Perhaps not even herself. (See what we mean?) [and if you don't see what 'we' mean, read it again, you cows]

Sorry it's so short :P

Next one will be good-and vague~ ehehehehehh


	12. Unsilent in the Dark

ITS VAGUE TIME

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

-is laughing maniacally-

DAY 28

She could hear them in the room beside hers as the walls were of thin wood and coated by a hair-width layer of something smoother. So much for 'conservation of resources,' as Ugo had insisted. Arba huffed, turning onto her side for the 25th time. Or was it the 27th? She'd lost count. It would've been just as easy to drown out their voices as it would be to flick an eyelash or draw another breath, but the gentle conversation was charmingly sweet. She heard her laugh, a tinkling thread, the fine line between a chuckle and a giggle; she heard his amused exhalation. They weren't clear-the voices shrouded in crisp night air-but the older woman caught drifting words lilting in the dark, and the seldom clues hinted the general gist of their conversation. A conversation that twisted and fanned out and flipped back on itself at an indecisive pace. It was probably the lucid spell of deep night that leaked through as chill drafts that influenced people so. It was one of the reasons Arba so liked the night.

Time passed, words were traded, and the first two moons had probably passed their zenith. She dozed, dipping in and out of their line of conversation.

'You know, Sheba,' and she heard-with surprising clarity-Solomon take on a more serious tone. It was cooler and registered deeper. A tone that could foolishly-albeit easily-be interpreted as scolding. The other seven all knew better though. It had been a long time since he had scolded any of them, the last incident being more than six years ago, when the two youngest magicians had been little more than children. Arba smiled at the memory of Sheba pouting at him, the guilty cookie in the vice grip of her hands. Those hands were so small back then. The night was soundless for a while, save for the constant ripple of insect calls, and Arba strained to hear the next phrase. Had she missed it in her reverie? 'I'm just-' his next words were muffled, and the older woman cursed the material between them. What was he saying? Head now pressed against her bedroom wall, she must have resembled an eavesdropping child. She was one, to some vague degree. And then she heard Sheba, voice raised in both volume and pitch, harsher in delivery, edges ruffled in disbelieving embarrassment.

'H-huh? You don't m-mean-?' And then she stopped as the softer bass of Solomon cut her aimless stutter off, but Arba couldn't hear the brief words following. And then there was a long silence. Perhaps they had at last decided to sleep? More silence, the shift of weight, a breathy sigh, a stifled sound between a squeal and a rumble. Arba shifted, pressing ever closer to the wall. She must've appeared something similar to the tomato Tess had 'accidentally' flung at the dining room wall earlier that day. Unwilling to accept the end of such an intriguing interaction, the woman frowned in concentration. A gasp, no, two of them, the swift intake of breath like humans after deprivation of air. How curious. And then, so quietly that she could barely hear, 'S-Solomon, you...' An uncertain exclamation, a trembling confirmation. Then a shy exhalation, but she couldn't tell who's as the sources of their voices were suspiciously close together. They had been for quite a while now, actually. Some ominous shuffling and then the painfully sharp squeak of weight removed from a bed followed.

'I'm going back now, it's not that cold anymore. Sleep well.' It was Solomon, voice low and stiff and smooth and breathless all at the same time. She couldn't help thinking that Sheba was lucky... And though Arba had seen nothing and heard no more that night, she could guess what had transpired. Perhaps, she thought, perhaps they were finally on the road home?

No, if there are any dodgy people sitting in the back with their heads in a gutter, no. And you know who you are, don't even raise a hand.

-is still laughing maniacally-

And yes, another short one, but ehh

GRACIE I have a nit to pick with you, REVIEW


	13. Dawning Promises

This chapter is named after this really nice instrumental song from the 6 hour epic music mix I love. It's pretty much the soundtrack to my life, I'm listening to it right now. Check it out, it's by Pandora Journey.

like, really. Check it out

Aah, this chapter, I think, is really cute. Solomon and Sheba being silently understanding. They really needed more time in the Manga. THEY ARE SO CUTE XD. THEY'RE CUTENESS IS TOO MUCH FOR ME.

And like, Arba's gonna be silly, aru. Hehehehee

DAY 29

Her steps were the softest footfalls, every surface of the sole seeking insecurities in the ground, in her own muscles. Every focused breath was a silent count. 129...130... She stumbled, shaky calves still painfully deficient of muscle. And though her steps were meek-precious, and her failures plentiful, Sheba recovered quickly, confidence ever growing. Confident like the flourishing day blooms and the intricate night glimmers. Confident because she knew that she would never fall, not with Solomon there. Silently assuring, he steadily bore her weight, somehow dependable in his dust-alight embrace.

'Thank you,' she said, spoken gratitude. He understood and she knew it. Crouched down to almost half his height, Solomon was only very gently supporting her, shoulders ghosting under her arm and shoulder, a stable hand brushing her waist. He handled her like she was made of the finest crystal, pristine, fragile. But not how she needed to be; even the most delicate of buds flower on their own. And then she perceived that his arms were not so much holding her up but pretending to be. And it wasn't him taking her weight that lightened her, but Sheba's own lack of mass. A surge of conviction and not one of manipulated insult washed over the girl; she'd been walking on her own this whole time! The wave melted into irrevocable thankfulness, its trail foaming over in fat dollops of pride. She didn't choke on them and rather stumbled on, tentative step after tentative step. Sheba was learning to walk again, and together they conducted her gait and way. Together, through those listless halls. Just like how their son would have done. They didn't know it yet, they wouldn't, and not for a boundless time. They didn't know what would happen to their world. And they wouldn't, not until its fall was inevitable. But that story is one you know, and not this one you don't. So we continue in our memory. One that will become yours.

It was a while before the dining hall's doorway was in reach, and the rowdy chorus of hundreds of magicians bounced and echoed, a bustling musical that ruled the high ceilings. To Sheba, it felt like a year had passed in just 12 minutes. After a pause, they cleared the wooden frame and Sheba saw everyone, not just her closest friends, idly chatting at their own table, but everyone. The scene seemed to unfold before her eyes, the sheer normalcy of it all striking her. Their closest friends had even left their seats unoccupied, subconsciously courteous. She hadn't seen them all for too long. And then someone Sheba couldn't see behind salty emotion call out for her.

'Sheba's walking!' It wasn't long before that single phrase was taken up and in. It wasn't long before her huge family began cheering, clapping, congratulating. Even Mares, who Sheba had only heard the voice of twice, cheered for her. The image blurred and shimmered with warm liquid. Her voice severed by gratitude. She would've stood there for two eternities if not for the infinitely sensible Solomon nudging her on. Wordlessly, they crawled on through the dining chamber, movements patient and secured. Then Sheba noticed them giving her an awful lot of space, standing just apart as if a stray breath might knock her over. Only Solomon's silent, unbroken presence penetrated the isolation. She appreciated, resented and couldn't comprehend her comrades' distance all at the same time. In something similar to apprehension, Sheba snaked an arm behind Solomon's back, her other hand finding an uncertain grip in his. The older magician didn't shift away, instead he tightened their intertwined fingers, his golden bracelets pressed against her skin. Like this, the two Great Sinners lanced through the crowd, and she felt another year pass.

'Hey, you're getting stronger quickly, aren't you? I thought you and Solomon might still have been, I don't know, doing what you usually do...'' Arba's voice trailed off and Sheba couldn't help but notice that odd look she was giving her. The woman's eyes were twinkling with mirth and...mischief? She acknowledged her with a word of affirmation and a cautious nod, still unnerved by those peering eyes. They held a somewhat smug edge, and Sheba perceived them as the 'I know what you've been doing' and the 'you can't hide your happenings from me' eyes. She shivered from the strange coolness emanating from Arba, flicking her eating utensils and almost dropping them. Falan swept a concerned look towards the offending hand and then into her eyes.

'Are you okay, aru? You seem a little uncomfortable, do you want to like, lie down, aru?' Sheba started, actually dropping the item this time, then hastily retrieving it.

'Uh, ha, n-no thank you Falan, I'm fine,' Solomon raised a delicate eyebrow, opening his mouth as if to speak, but Ugo reclaimed his attention. Falan, being satisfied with her reassurance, returned to the comical denial between Wahid and her own...chest. Arba slid another knowing glance at her and Sheba began to flush, tight panic mixed with pressurised unease rising in her throat. What if she could notice her redder-than-normal lips and shallow bags under her eyes? What if she heard them talking and doing more than just that in the night? Unable to concentrate any longer on the meal before her, Sheba glared desperately at Solomon. How he managed to avoid scrutiny and look just fine was befuddling. With growing incredulity, she watched as Solomon oh so casually took a draught from his cup, smiling and conversing with Ithnan and Setta. And then she felt him brush her side with his arm, a lingering graze, and almost yelped. Sheba was sweating now and Arba was still gazing at her, eyes minutely lidded and her smile just a tad lopsided in mocking bemusement.

Sheba continued to suffer under Arba's gaze, Solomon constantly brushed at her with a stray arm or hand or finger. It was probably supposed to be comforting, but Sheba simply got more and more flustered, unknowingly gripping the edges of her chair, knees occasionally twitching, teeth nigh on grinding. And Arba was still showcasing that 'I know I know I know what you've been up to' expression. If anything, she could picture a mini dancing Arba, grinning and taunting. On the verge of panic, she noticed Falan getting suspicious, snapping sidelong glances at the younger girl when she thought she wasn't looking. And now Wahid and Setta were regarding her in confusion. Even Ugo, curiously observing. Sheba bit her lip, leaning just that little bit closer to Solomon, who had fallen silent now that they had all stopped talking to him. There was a moment of awkward staring until Ithnan-who else could it be-broke the silence.

'So...why are you all staring at Sheba?' Arba chuckled lightly and Setta sighed, but not in exasperation.

'...you are still like, to dense to understand anything, aru,' Falan teased. Ithnan scowled, about to object when Solomon salvaged the interaction.

'Never mind that,' he interjected, speech smooth and composed, loyal in Sheba's defense. She shrunk into his side and cowered there. The conversation-or lack of it-grudgingly moved on, and Arba smiled, once and pointedly at Sheba, deftly flicking her gaze and imperceptibly nodding towards Solomon before she too, dove into the different topic line. It was a warming smile: apologetic, encouraging and approving. Coupled with the gesture, it spoke. 'Go for it, Sheba.' She shifted deeper into Solomon's side, no longer in shame. And smiled, she was keeping their promise after all. She was going to support Solomon, and they were moving forward.

They talked and they laughed like that, a tiny light in the great scheme of things,

but a light indeed. It shone despite impending doom. It shone, only because we allowed it to. Yet they were little more than an island of purity soon to be swamped by an ocean of darkness. Did the fault lie among us or did it reside on the underway? We did not know, but felt the forbidding darkness that still dwelled behind the eyes of a certain phenomenon...

Longer one to make up ;)

Poor Sheba is so funny


	14. A Final Fall

December Anne, REVIEW

Yay! Some battle and action…

And like, Cephe. I made her up on the spot but her name is really a shortening of another name I use. ^~^

DAY 30

Solomon was prioritising the complaints and issues handed in through species in their isolation barriers, regaining his order, regaining role. It was a tedious job, but a job that needed doing. He was close to completion when a magician barrelled in-he recognised her as Cephe-and random magicians didn't just barrel in. She was yelling and panting at Solomon more than speaking, words only discernible because of their utter urgency. For a moment, he stood motionless, waiting for her to calm down. But then he deciphered her ramblings. Their furthest barrier was breaking. Solomon snapped into action; any number of lazy days could not dispel the habit that had quickly become instinct. Using clairvoyance magic, he swiftly assessed the situation.

'Thank you, Cephe. Gather with your 5th squadron's Captain, sound the 4th alarm,' Instantly, she rose from her instinctful bow, nodded six times and darted from the room like an arrow from a bowstring. Her haste caused her to stumble, nearly colliding with the doorframe. He smiled; she'd stirred up fond memories. Cephe had only been seven when she joined the resistance and had been here for ten years now. She was skilled, but still too impulsive to lead even a 1st squadron, much like Sheba used to be. She would get there though, that was for sure.

Solomon filed one last slip of parchment into his personal archive shelves, retrieved his staff from it's levitation by his maroon-red desk and strode out into bustling corridors. Already, the mountain had burst into motion. Efficiency was everywhere, magicians of all ages were filing out into open air, directing the few children and injured into their respective shelters. The innumerable drills had really paid off. Magicians by their hundreds spawned from the mountain, a hive under attack. He weaved through the milling crowd to the nearest sky arch until they noticed his presence. The humans parted for him, and though Solomon despised their timid respect, he masked his distaste with a firm nod. It was important to be one of the first out. Sky arches themselves were nothing more than one of the many gaping arches in the side of the mountain. Lined with pale golden marble, they were strategically placed and in hidden pockets to shelter from weather or worse, prying eyes. Each arch revealed open air and surrounding cliffs that had slated away a century ago. Solomon took two smaller, quicker steps and fell into the cold sky, allowing himself to dip treacherously for half a moment before a warm draft swept him directly above their gargantuan home. A bird cawed angrily at him, but Solomon paid it no mind as the satisfying rush of air flipped through his hair ( friggin Pantene commercial hair). Being so isolated in the boundless air of the sky, being so distant in regard would never get old.

As Arba, Ithnan, Setta, Falan and Wahid flocked to him, awaiting directions, Solomon analysed the situation again. Ugo had stayed behind with Sheba, who was still too weak to fight. This was a major setback for their defense. Offending magicians came from all directions, a concentration of them targeted the mountain's northeastern wall, the others rushing at the northwestern. Most were on foot, the more skilled magicians flew. A slightly smaller number also dropped in towards the back, immediately engaging in raw battle. He guessed that the forces had been concealed by magic, or the sentries would have seen them much earlier. And hiding such a massive number of troops simply could not be achieved by just a small number of unskilled magicians. This was something big. It had been planned in detail, too. This setting could unfurl in many ways to suit the resistance's counterattack and Solomon could tell that it would be a hard fight. Actually, he was surprised that Elder David had not done this sooner, being just after Sheba's accident. But he had no time to think such thoughts now. Solomon steeled himself and felt a rush of solid determination fill his veins. Elder David was making a move, and he would too.

With the inklings of desperation, Solomon realised that the sheer number of enemy magicians were driving them back, and without Sheba, they were beginning to lose the upper hand. If things continued like this, it would be a heavy blow to the resistance and recovery would be inconvenient, even fatal to the success of the rebellion. Already, too many lives had been lost. Something had to be done, and fast. Solomon did not allow himself to panic as such an amatuer instinct served no justice. And then he remembered a magic so ruthless and unstoppable that the very memory of it rattled his nerves. They frayed around the edges. He remembered their power and nothing else. The memory plagued the back of his mind, teasing a darkness that should very well have been left alone. The memory grew and seeped through his labyrinth of thoughts, staunching hesitation. The darkness crept and seeped. Inklings flashed and faded, wonderings merged and shattered. Suddenly, Solomon could think of nothing else but those hideous black words. And he liked them. The Son of David swept an encompassing gaze across the battlefield and a livid thirst for power and dominance and something else, something so much darker and woven deeper snaked in and around his mind. He allowed it. It constricted those words, forced them to take shape. Dimly, Solomon noticed the woman with two long braids start and turn. He delighted in the desperation on her face, it was delectable. So much unlike that genuine glee in the other magicians eyes, the magicians with their dark robes and conical hats. He despised their joy and wished it gone, just once and feverishly. And then a twisted song fell from his lips, impossibly heavy. It smote the joyous ones, crushed their minds, broke their souls. They fell instantly, all at once. But Solomon-or what was left of him-could not see what more they did behind the black and red and unnameable colour that somehow resembled a brown haze that coated everything. He revelled in it.

David's son grinned maniacally, even as the spell bloated inside his own head, cruel spines thrusting out. It didn't hurt because the pain was too busy with the red black colour red black colour red black colour red black colour to ever ever surface and tell him. Tell him that something was wrong when everything finally felt so right. He felt so right. An image, cursed and foul flashed behind his vision and branded itself there. A being, beautiful and terrible and indescribably divine. It would stay there for the rest of eternity. And it would persuade him to make the worst mistake that would eventually lead to the fall of the worlds they all loved and dwelled within. He respected it. Solomon did not know it then, no-one did, but perhaps the singularity that read the waves of Fate knew. It's tentacles rippled, dark as dread yet so bright that he could not think how to fly or see the Mother Dragon cry out from many a mile or taste the bile in his mouth or feel himself fall from the sky. Or hear a certain woman scream out in more than self denial. She was so much more than desperate or agonised. The darkness already there pulsed and reigned. And he welcomed it.

Creepy~

Links to the fall of Alma Torran~

Ooh~

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It is 5 past 10. That is all I can say.


	15. Stories that End Never End Kindly

It would and somehow will be night again, when the suns all shine at once and fill the pristine night air. Like we detached did and still do, even when the three closest ones- and the one closest one-ruled. She sat at the same window that he did, so long ago. Except her eyes fell in opposites, and though her hair was also tossed from the same frame and streaked in phantom falls down the cliff, it did not rest and waver in the same way. It lay smoother, fairer, at least in the eyes of us. She was devastated, to say the least of the most we express, and part of us understood. The part that is dead and yet lives on. Just like how He had and will decide it to be. She no longer cried because there were no tears left; she no longer grasped his hand because she could not bear his lack of return. But she spoke. Through the dark and into the darker. She willed it to pierce the darkest and fell his darkness. Maybe it would.

He hadn't known them, hadn't known anyone. The truth was, he hadn't known them since the first fall. Not really. The truth remained, and they didn't know any truth. Verity clasped in the delicate locket of falsehood. The locket was shaped as an intricate heart, perfect. So perfect that it became truly impure. False. The false heart lay in her chest, he was trapped purity, a beauteous confinement in metallic fabric of lies. All lies. So poisonously fair that it hurt her true heart and encased it with him. Her love was sacrifice, and it would stay so until the two of them fell falsely free or ascended into us. We need not say more. Time dragged space in silent chains and her voice failed. Failed. It was unlinked, so it reclined external, just like the rest of her did, but her heart, her love, her lover suffered internal. Shuddered. Suffered for an age and more because stories never end kindly, not this one. Never this one. The silent chains flinched and tightened, her physical self must also recline. Exhaustion was only human, phenomenon was only human, singularity was only human. She was only human. So she did, clambered sluggishly by his side, the false locket of her heart only growing falsely fairer, and she hurt herself to sleep.

DAY 31

Arba meandered into the sick room, eyes comically averted as she turned to shut the door quietly behind her, humming an ancient tune. Of course, the woman was not as calm and at peace as she made herself out to be. No, she was here because the complete lack of sound from the room was, frankly, getting quite disturbing. It was no longer early, and Sheba had been in there the whole night. Not to mention Solomon's condition and it was suspicious. But the sight that greeted her was beyond cute. (ARBA SHIPS THEM TOO I RESPECT HER) Sheba was curled into Solomon's chest, covers shared and in disarray so his back faced the older woman and much of Sheba's bare legs were open to the air. Solomon had an arm laid almost protectively across her waist. Both were asleep. Despite the apprehension of the former day, she chuckled. Forcing herself for a moment to let go. Let go and just pretend that everything was alright. It was sinful bliss. Arba stalled, lingering at the entrance. She was tempted to wake the girl like any sensible, kind woman would in such circumstances. Just so Sheba wouldn't have to suffer through the possibility of Solomon waking first. Except Arba, feeling somewhat mischievous, decided to lurk behind the doorway and watch it play out. She pursed her lips and smiled at the same time, lips forming a little V. Much too giddily, the woman bounced from the room, robes flowing, long plaits trailing behind

The first thing he noticed was that there was hair everywhere. The second was that it wasn't his hair. That hadn't been there the night before now, had it? Also, a warmth was present. Still muddled from sleep, Solomon held it closer until, with a jolt, he realised it was Sheba. Being the composed man he was, Solomon made to calculate his next move when something distracted him. That something being his own state of mind. For the first time in half an eternity, it was clear. And, awed by the limitless depths he could finally perceive, Solomon explored the crystalline space of knowledge and sensibility inside that had once been clouded. How? When? He could think again, and pursued such wonderings. His consciousness delved slowly and in measured movements; it was like a great, boundless ocean, only dark because of its utter volume. Water disturbed if any manoeuvre was too sudden. Lost in the new dawn, he did not shift until Sheba woke.

They're so cute! XD

Love those first Paragraphs :3

It's almost finished guys, this story is coming to a close!

BAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAHHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHA

I have no eyes _

Oh, Our Great Lord Solomon, why have you given me a life with no eyes? _

eheheheheehehehehehhehe

I should stop now

BUT I WON'T

AHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAHHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHAAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAHHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHA

I still have no eyes _


	16. i have no eyes

I'm like, blind, aru. I can't see, aru. What am I like, gonna do without my eyes, aru?

Cuz like, even Sheba has eyes, aru

Her eyes burst open, lashes fanning and framing; memory had torn her from careful slumber. What if Solomon was already awake? Sheba's senses piqued as she tensed and the girl felt his arm, and she was sure it was his arm because she could see the hand attached. Colour drained, then rose anew to her face, dying it a furious red, there was no way to rise undetected now. Of course, she tried all the same. Gingerly, Sheba shuffled, loosening up the duvets, loosening Solomon's accidental embrace. It probably wasn't accidental. And of course, Solomon was indeed awake. He sighed contentedly, and she could hear the amusement tingling upon the air, skipping across the back of her neck. Sheba bit her lip to keep from squeaking or squealing or a combination of both. Her shuffling became desperate, legs pedalling an invisible bike, arms flapping erratically. The covers fled in alarm; Solomon's arm also escaped. Propelling herself from the small bed, muscles still not quite up to scratch, Sheba fumbled down and under it, hiding where she fell. Blood rushed in her ears and a blanket cascaded messily beside her. This morning was not going well.

Sheba made to apologise, but only a rasping croak came out. The night before had taken its toll, after all. Brain whirring, entire frame tense. She was hoping, but didn't know what exactly for. Solomon laughed, and she swiped at sprouting tears. That was a real laugh. Rare and regal and silken free. Suddenly, the girl didn't want to be there. She didn't want to believe that he was fine and have her heart broken again. Not again. It wasn't fair. His mirth ebbed off and Solomon shuffled over to her side, unruly hair dangling millimetres from her nose. It hadn't been brushed, but was still beautiful. Sheba couldn't marvel at it, not just now.

'Sheba! It's alright you know, don't hide down there. It's childish,' he added. At that, the said girl forgot her remorse and prickled up.

'Oh yeah? This _childish_ person is respecting your privacy, unlike someone who is hanging upside down!' She whispered harshly, voice struggling to form words. She'd worried for him all day and night, and the moment he'd woken up, he teased her. The nerve! Solomon chuckled again, except the low exhalation was hemmed up with somber threads. He reached a hand out with surprising coordination for a man whose upper torso was dangling off the bed. A feathery thumb brushed a tear she never knew had fallen. He could read her, transparent like glass, read her like the wind shaped the clouds.

'I'm sorry for making you worry, Sheba. I'm alright, I promise.' His other arm snaked forth and she felt it alight just below her neck. Sheba didn't want to believe it, but her thoughts were incoherent, mushed and sloppy like the strange, translucent, wobbly thing Setta had made as a treat. She couldn't think. That wasn't good, wasn't right, was it?Their faces were suddenly very close together, and Sheba had to cast her gaze downwards to meet his eyes. Her chest was going to burst. Was she getting sick? But Sheba could not dwell on the thought; Solomon was only getting closer. She gasped, struck by what he was going to do. But then the already suspiciously ajar door swung open.

Arba POV

She'd tried to stop them, she had. But her words had been hushed and jumbled and Falan and Ithnan would have none of it. They pushed the door fully open, oblivious for a muted moment. But eyes see, and brains think, just as surely as theirs did. Arba cursed, whatever seen could not be unseen, and she pitied Sheba already. Of course, being the unknowing one of the group, Ithnan started, genuinely astonished. Somewhat spooked, he averted his eyes to the lonely lamp that Solomon had let Sheba decorate, grimacing at the sight. Even Arba had to admit Sheba's disadvantage with interior decoration. Falan 'oopsed' guiltily, and began to display unnerving interest in the door handle. Obviously ashamed to have broken their moment. She should've been. As one, the intruders shuffled from the room. Arba caught Solomon recovering into a more dignified sitting position, Sheba still huddled under the bed in mortification. Poor girl.

'Told you.' Arba mouthed, motioning dramatically.

'What! When did this happen? How do I not know these things?' Ithnan ranted, practically whisper-yelling. Falan edged away from him, or maybe it was the room she was avoiding.

'Ithnan, you have to like, pay more attention to these things, aru. And I'll be like, leaving now, let them have their moment, you know, aru?' She winked, then paced off, maintaining a fair amount of dignity. Arba shoved Ithnan after her.

'Now now, Ithnan. Why don't you go and learn a few things from Falan? You're too loud here, they'll hear you.' You warned, still whispering.

'You can't say much, Arba! How long have you even been standing here?' Ithnan snapped back, unwilling to budge. Arba coughed, closing her eyes and dipping her head.

'Well, that's not important...' She shoved him a bit harder, 'off you go, Ithnan, off you go.' He grunted in annoyance, swaggering after Falan, footsteps weighed by irritation. The woman smiled as she watched him bumble off, grumbling to himself as he went. Intermission over, she returned to the show.

Lololol, Arba eavesdropping again.


	17. Hakuryuu was so cool

Solomon and Sheba POV

'Noooo, I'm going to stay here for the rest of my life,' she wailed. Solomon sighed in feigned nonchalance, this could be fun.

'Really? Huh, fine by me. I'll just leave now then,' he trailed off, emphasising the 'leave' just slightly. The casual act was perfect. (Cuz everything Our Great Lord Solomon does is pretty much perfect) If he hadn't known Sheba any better, Solomon wouldn't have understood her actions. But he did, and the the ridicule she felt was palpable. Solomon retrieved a length of twine from the nearby dresser and sauntered over to the door. He moved slower than he normally would, but what fun would it be if Sheba actually let him leave? The estimation proved true. Sheba darted out from underneath the bed, clutching the blanket with one hand, the other secured around his wrist.

'Nooooo,' she wailed again, 'Please don't leave me in-' But with more yearning impulse than actual reason, Solomon pivoted. And with one fluid motion, brought the burdened arm close, forcing Sheba even closer. Her words sparked and lingered in the little space between them; the unspoken ones forgotten on her tongue. Thickly, she swallowed them down, eyes wide and round and wet. The blanket fluttered to the ground and Solomon's twine adorned its crown. His heart was pounded through the silence, but the hummingbird like thrumming of Sheba's pulse could never be rivalled.

'Leave you in where?' he murmured, pulling her ever closer, propping the woman's chin high with a minutely trembling finger. Impossibly, her heart rate rocketed higher, pitter-pattering like the endless rain he hadn't noticed was falling. The teasing drowned his own nerves, a technique he'd always used around her, ever since the woman began to lead squadrons of her words between them dissolved into disregard; there was no space for anything there anyway. Sheba yelped, and he felt her sag in his hold, losing the full strength to stand. It was adorable. He watched her shining gaze, and it delivered a message of something between fear and willingness and an emotion so deep and alive that he couldn't bring himself to name it. Yet Solomon knew he felt the same. And then the great magician was aware of a chuckling. It was abrupt, and ended the moment he looked up. A dark plait bordered the world beyond the doorframe. It had been a feminine giggle, and distinct. In truth, he'd know she was there all along, just decided against shattering the perfect morning he and Sheba were sharing. After all, isolated moments such as these were hard to come by, and harder to maintain in their fragility. Especially with three particular magicians lurking about. The plait shifted, a robed skirt peeked unknowingly at him. Arba was watching.

'Solomon?' Sheba whispered, those mystically soulful eyes begging at him. Her tongue flicked out, moistening quivering lips as she made to speak.

'Sheba...' He began, Solomon could not stop there; he had one last amend to make. 'You've always been here for me,' They opened, those gates, and impulse spiked again. He had to finish though, no matter the temptation. 'You've seen and brought me through my weakest, most perilous state,' he pressed his forehead to hers and she trembled in the cool wind of anticipation. 'I thank you for that. Thank you for everything.' And then Solomon silenced her rising voice. Not the unfocused, longing way he'd first done in that deluded haze that had become his soul, not the rash and clumsy closeness they'd shared in the dark. No, this was different, and Arba slunk away into the halls. This was an intimacy even she had to respect.

ONE MORE CHAPTER AND WE'RE DONE!

WHHEEEEEEEE


	18. Cradling Stars

Sheba could only stare at and not into his eyes; she could not think what else to do. Those eyes dominated her vision, clear and true. Crystalline pools that held so much assurance and tenderness and yearning. It was all for her. Petrified-but not in a bad way-Sheba watched those flawless eyelids flutter closed, his long lashes brushed her, whispering across flushed skin. Just like the agile swallow darting among fading dawn, skimming a hair-breadth from warming dew. A millennium of finesse encompassed in a heartbeats. Like the newborn dragonfly, greeting its reflection in glimmering pool. Perfection only pierced by framing reeds. And then she was enveloped within such blissful presence of his and vision winked out entirely. But that was alright, everything was alright. Even if her heart was to break again tomorrow. The hand on her wrist melted away and materialised again down her back in the next instant. Her knees trembled then buckled, but Solomon's arm bestowed the blessing of support, hand across her lower back, touch infinitely gentle. His other hand, the one that had lifted her chin, swept upwards, a feathery brush, and flicked a wisp of hair behind her ear, dusting warming temples. It journeyed slower now, hovering to caress her nape, only to return, loyal. Solomon's lips waltzed with hers, steps complex, fine and unbelievably soft. There was restraint there, too, and the yearning part of Sheba wanted it gone; a part that was drastically growing, sparking a prickling heat deep in her veins. Consuming like a virus and leaving invigoration in its wake.

And so, Sheba pushed, closer, deeper, instinctually weaving her fingers into his hair, the longer tresses shimmering at her will. The shorter ones gave entirely. Her other arm clenched tight around his back, nervous nails tapping out a fickle rhythm. Fabric shuddering as the tiny hammers struck-just as Sheba felt his tongue prod teasingly, then retract. It was frightening, but this fear lashed through and down her spine, igniting a searing trail within the bone. She quivered and struggled for silence. But the fire persisted and fused with the virus in her veins. It was unbearable, yet Sheba wanted it no other way. The demure hand at her own hair sifted once more, then cupped her cheek, instigating control. Solomon tilted it so their heads were at harsh angles. His nose brushed the arc of her cheekbone, irritatingly insistent. It didn't matter, though. Not really. He stepped forward, forcing her back a step. The older magician leaned over her, ravishing her lips again with extended freedom, and the girl couldn't keep the wordless, exulted lament in. The desperate cry seemed to ring silent, trapped in their closeness. This close together, she could smell his skin, cool and earthen like the navigating, guiding trickle that heralds crushing floods, and then the brutality itself. Like fresh snow-the bold simplicity of unadorned steel plains and at the same time, rich. An intricate, charismatic gold. His scent was one of power and prudence, audacity and allure. Enthralling to all his audience and even more so to her. Abruptly, she felt a blind hand traced her side, alighting just below the bone of her hip. The accuracy uncanny. Sheba reeled back in disbelieving tension, gasping aloud for only a second of sweet, sweet, air before Solomon claimed her mouth again, still agape. And then she felt his tongue threading, and it was mindlessly unnatural, against hers. It was even more unnatural that she revelled in it.

Ever since the beginning, she had been a lonely light. Abandoned afront the church, she woke in emptiness, gotten raised among the empty, empty in her eyes, little in the mind and nothing in the soul. Her heart was full, but it brimmed with unjust prejudice and ingrained rejection. Sometimes, she wondered about the family she never had. But it was hard. Impossible to imagine a love that she had never understood. She settled that no one felt the same way, that she was alone. A single, pathetic glow among a universe of stars, swirling in galaxies eons passed. Stars that were distant in so many more ways than two, and possessed a brightness that would consume her if put beside to compare. Even then, she did, let the injustice of it all consume her as the girl dreamed. There had been that sense of belonging she'd felt in the church itself, that she was doing something, cleansing the world, even. It seemed so noble. But of course, it was not real. And that hollow purpose hurt. It throbbed in the silent hours of supposed rest, it burned while she watched the families of the other species. It burned, and she came to hate them all so much. And it hurt all the more that she didn't know what it was that she hated. Yes, she came to hate everything, everyone, even the boys and girls as they died beside her. They had joined their Father, escaped from this accursed, impure world. The Father that was her only light. But then Solomon came. And everyone accepted and welcomed her and changed her heart and mind and soul. Just like that, she became so happy, so grateful. Solomon was incredible. It was almost like family, yet could never be the same. It would never ever be the same. So that joy, pure as it was, faltered into a pain that she long since learned to tolerate. That didn't mean that it didn't hurt. And so with Solomon on her left and Arba on her right, she lay in the dark. Those twirling stars right there. Right close to the touch, but when she reached for them, they burned her in the knowledge that in reality, the stars she saw would always be so very far away.

But not now as Solomon kissed her like this. Not anymore.

This story has not ended; it merges in with another, much more real one. Because remember? Endings are never kind.

No one knew why he recovered-we don't really-even to this day. Perhaps it was Sheba's will. Perhaps though, it was what drives us. Perhaps, it was Fate...

I've never even written a story this long… I am so proud -wipes invisible tear-

I'm totally going to rename this story 'Memories of Us' cause the rukh do play a part, or more importantly, Fate, but still. Do me a favour and give me prompts for my other story? I'm gonna write some more under that, now that this project is finished.

I've now got some people to thank.

I'd like to thank Surakittmay for being insane and giving me ideas and being nice to chat with and those epic epic rps we got ourselves into. XD oh, they were grand.

I'd also like to thank Gracie, who doesn't review nearly enough. And reads spoilers. Poo.

I'd like to thank the slightly absent SilverSnowflake for like, that interesting talk we had about 'Who's fault is it?', aru.

But most of all, I'd like to thank Saffy! Everyone give her a round of applause!

-standing ovation happens-

Anyway, so thank you so much for listening to my crazy ramblings, talking so much, being friendly, encouraging and reliably reminding me to update, and just overally being awesome. It's been a real pleasure learning about your life. :). Also. You have reviewed EVERY SINGLE CHAPTER and every time I see one of those notifications pop up, I wipe at another tear. :,). Lol. Um. Ya, so thank so much.

Notes:

The dark magic pushes people from their identities and souls and closer to the drifting souls of rukh. Effectively, killing their souls and not their bodies.


End file.
